


Eight Companions: A Battle for an Elf's Sanity, The

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Non-canonical to good purpose, Canon - Outstanding AU/reinterpretation, Humor, Other - Freeform, Plot - Joy, Subjects - Explores obscure facts, Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Good use of humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2002-12-19
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:48:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4215331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas and 7 companions: Tuor, Elrond's sons, Elves of Nargothrond, & a Balrog-slayer - go on a quest against the Feanorians at the social event of Valinor for the ultimate prize: an escape from bad fanfic.   Silmarillion humor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

“Not one word. Not one simple, Valar-blessed, word.” Legolas said, viciously ripping at the hideous  
– the only word for it - Tuor thought – the hideous  
red and violet cloak that hung around his shoulders. However, the fabric was of  
high quality, and with a muttered curse that Tuor could only guess at, the  
Prince sliced at it with a slim dagger. While curious, Tour could not help but  
admire his friend’s skill. After all, it took real talent to decimate a cloak  
with _that_ many gems sewn into it in a  
matter of seconds. The Prince flicked the last strand of the offending garment  
onto the floor and sat down, his eyes still dark with anger.

“My, my, Lord Prince, your flair for the dramatic is improving,” a dark haired Noldo said, glancing up from a nearby table where he and Glorfindel were engaged in a heated chess match. Tuor turned to face the speaker. He was Gelmir, son of Guilin, who had been the first casualty at the Nirnaeth. His time in Mandos had ended a few years before Legolas had arrived in the Blessed Realm. 

“Aye, ‘tis a pity, really that Daeron or Maglor, or even that noble Perian, Bilbo, was not present, for a new song would have been born.” Glorfindel added. “Of Legolas and the Fall of the Red Cloak.’ It has a pleasing ring to it, I deem. And my good Lord Gelmir, you are now in check.” This last comment instantly recaptured Gelmir’s attention, causing him to miss the dark glance Legolas shot in his direction. 

However, its significance was not lost on Tuor. In the years since Legolas had come to Valinor, Tuor had become very close to the Sindarin prince. For in Legolas, Tuor had found an Elf who not only knew much of the ways of mortals – for both during the War of the Ring and his later years in Ithilien, he had been in close contact with the remnants of the Edain – but welcomed them. Likewise, Legolas too had warmed quickly to Tuor, finding in him one whose personal qualities would at times remind him of Gimli, Aragorn, Frodo, and the other mortals he had befriended and lost.

However, in all the years of their friendship, Tuor had never seen his friend looking quite this angry. The mere fact that Gelmir and Glorfindel had not received any reply to their comments was evidence enough – it was rare for any elf to let such a comment slide, and it was rare indeed that Legolas was unable to come up with a speedy reply. Yes, Tuor decided, Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of Eryn Lasgalen and Lord of Elves of Ithilien, and one of the Nine Walkers – titles which really had no meaning in the Lands of Valinor, but which he had not been able to cast aside – was not happy.

“How bad was it this time?” Tuor asked gently. “Shall I send for Lord Elrond?”

“Nay,” Legolas said, shuddering. “I would not expose him once more to such horrors.” Eyes turned grey by anger shifted to Tuor. “They had me being forced to wed! And as if that wasn’t enough, my Father was portrayed as an imbecile, Boromir as a fool, Aragorn’s name had been changed to Aragon, and the lady I was to wed was the youngest daughter of Lord Elrond; for he had inexplicably gained several daughters besides Lady Arwen. And she had violet eyes.” Legolas banged the table, sending chess pieces rattling to the floor. Several elves turned to look at him. Legolas bowed in silent apology, then lowered his voice. “Tuor, in all your years in Gondolin, and amongst the Edain, did you ever see violet eyes among either kindred?”

“Well, truth be told, some of Vanyarin descent do possess eyes near that shade,” Tuor said carefully. ‘But if the Lady was truly as you describe her, then it would be nigh near impossible.” Tuor paused. “How did you manage to escape this time?”

Legolas sighed. “I merely told her…” His voice trailed off. Tuor turned to see Elladan and Elrohir, twin sons of Elrond, coming towards them.

“Legolas! Mithrandir told us of your tale of woe. I thought that Lady Vairë had helped to take care of that particular problem, of late.” Elrohir said, pulling a chair up to the table. Elladan did likewise, his face full of sympathy.

“Aye, she has woven all my titles into my tale, which requires anyone who tries to summon me to know every last one of them.” Tuor nodded. Vairë had been most understanding, having already had similar problems arise with Maedhros, Finrod, and the like. None of the Valar were quite sure why the Elves could be pulled from Valinor. Many theories had been tossed about; the most popular favoring the strange disappearances and subsequent tales of woe as the last attempts of the remnants of Morgoth’s followers on Middle-Earth to return their Lord to power. Naturally, Morgoth had denied this, and while many had ignored his denials, the Valar would say nothing, adding that Eru had said only that all would be revealed, ere the End.

Luckily, it had been discovered that such disappearances were preventable, if enough minute details about one’s life were woven into Vairë’s great tapestries. Tuor had not felt the need to edit his own life; the few times he had been summoned, he had merely relived bits of the lesser-known parts of his life. However, many of the sons of Fëanor, and Finrod, Fingon, Maeglin, Eol, Elrond, Thranduil and others had returned from such journeys furious, amused, or shaken, depending on their different natures.

However, none had suffered quite so much as the former prince of Greenwood the Great. Tuor wondered what particular quality Legolas possessed, which made him such a common target. He looked at his friend, objectively assessing his features. He was comely enough, his features no less pleasing that that of any other of Sindarin descent. He was slender, as were many of the Teleri; his eyes a strange mixture of grey and green that reminded Tuor of woodlands and swift rivers. His most distinctive feature was his hair. It constantly seemed to shift from the pale silver hue of some of the Teleri, to the golden shades of the Vanyar, to the dark hair of the Noldor. Perhaps that was the answer, Tuor decided. Maybe…

“Tuor!” Startled, Tuor looked up. “By the Valar, Son of the Edain, we thought you had fallen asleep!” Elladan said. “Tis a wonder that you escaped Gondolin at all, if this is to be taken as a demonstration of your attention span.”

“Aye, I believe my respect and awe for Lady Idril has just risen even higher, if this is who she had to work with,” Elrohir agreed.

“I remind you, good Elladan and Elrohir, that I am your great-grandfather, and the same blood runs in our veins.” The twins grinned, conceding the point. “I apologize for not responding, I was merely contemplating Legolas’s hair. Mayhap, Legolas, if you asked Lady Vairë to specify a color for your locks in her weavings, you may halt some of your disappearances.”

“A reasonable assumption,” Legolas said “I shall see to that directly.”

“I still say that you should merely have the Lady weave Liriel’s….” Elladan began

“Nay!” Legolas said. ‘She lies in Mandos still, and we are not yet wed, though we shall when the time comes and she returns. I will not have her character maligned or, worse still, her time in Mandos corrupted by those foul…. _experiences_. Better I bear this burden alone.”

“It was merely a suggestion, as it appears that the Elves most targeted seem to be unmarried and male, and perhaps proving the existence of your betrothed would end such things,” Elladan said. “But I digress. You have yet to tell us how you escaped this time.”

Legolas stiffened, his face reddening slightly. “I would rather not say,”

“Come now,” Elrohir coaxed. “It can’t be any worse than Glorfindel’s note to that one maiden, stating that his battle with the Balrog was merely a lover’s quarrel gone wrong, and that the destruction of his one true love had put him off romantic relations forever more.”

“I was quite proud of that tale,” Glorfindel called. “And there is a certain dark beauty in a creature with whips of flame…”

Gelmir looked at Glorfindel, his expression a mixture of horror and awe. “I had never really given credence to the tales that claimed you were released from the Halls too soon, ere you just spoke.”

Legolas laughed. “No, not that wild, though a tad embarrassing,” he admitted.

“Speak, son of Thranduil!” Elrohir demanded. “Or I will be forced to tell a tale I heard from Faramir ere we departed, about a certain Elf’s encounter with Dwarven mead…”

Elrohir grinned as four pairs of eyes fixed on him expectantly.

“I surrender,” Legolas said, grinning. “I told her that I had loved Elladan.” Legolas smirked at the nauseated look that passed over the dark hairedelf’s face. “Aye, that was her reaction as well, Then I told her that when you had rejected my love, my heart had turned to Sauron, and my presence on the quest had merely been a desperate attempt to go to Mordor and declare my love.”

“Anything else?” Tuor asked, wondering what more could have been said.

“Nay,” Legolas said. “It was at that point the maiden screamed…I cannot remember what she called me, but it had something to do with me being very happy.” The other Elves nodded; their own brief experiences in that strange alternate reality had shown them that the ways of human maidens working under the influence of Morgoth were very strange indeed.

“And so you returned, mostly intact, save that truly horrible cloak,” Tuor said, suppressing a shudder. 

“Sadly, she escaped ere I could throw that foul creation over her head,” Legolas commented. .”At least I had the satisfaction of destroying it.” He sighed. “I would have rather not had to have to deal with it at all. Tuor, there must be a way of escaping them, of adding something to my life that is not common knowledge on Middle-Earth.”

“Checkmate, Lord Glorfindel,“ Gelmir said, standing. Glorfindel swore and stood also. The two carried chars over to where Legolas and the others were sitting. “You should have lived in the Years of the Trees,” Gelmir commented. “I have never been summoned, and my wife is not mentioned in any of the common histories that I remember.”

“Indeed,” Glorfindel agreed. “Although,” he sent a sly glance at Gelmir. “Most of the Elves of Nargothrond have escaped, save Lord Finrod. Perhaps your realm was not exciting enough to attract such attention?”

“What was not exciting enough?” The assembled elves turned to greet the newcomer, a Noldo with facial features similar to Gelmir’s

“Greetings, Gwindor,” Tuor said, turning to the newly re-embodied Elf Lord. “Glorfindel was merely commenting on life in Nargothrond.”

“Better a dull life than declaring love to a Balrog. After all, Glorfindel is not wedded yet…” Gwindor said, slyly.

Glorfindel glared as the other five laughed. ‘If we may return to Legolas’s question,” he said, a tad stiffly. “Surely there is a way for him to add something to his life. I would suggest perhaps some time spent in Doriath…”

“Too predictable,” Legolas said, shaking his head. “Through Oropher my father’s father, I can claim kinship with both Elu Thingol and Celeborn. Besides, it is well known as a Sindarin kingdom.”

“I would suggest Nargothrond, were it not certain that you would soon be er… _involved_ with Finrod or Orodreth, or possibly the Sons of Fëanor,” Gwindor said. ‘I mean no offense Legolas, but you do tend to be called on to do the strangest things…”

“Or worse still, he would have been involved with me,” a feminine voice said. Gwindor stood, wrapping his arms around the newest arrival. Finduilas smiled, standing on tiptoe and placing a light kiss on his cheek. Gelmir brought yet another chair over, and she sat down, murmuring her thanks. “You are a wonderful elf, Legolas, but my heart being turned against my will to Túrin was quite enough.”

“Well, that eliminates Doriath and Nargothrond,” Glorfindel said. “And I daresay Imladris and Lorien are too obvious. Perhaps the Realm of the Falathrim...”

Tuor listened quietly, considering each option. He agreed with Gelmir’s assessment that a First Age persona would definitely benefit Legolas. The Falas certainly sounded promising, yet something did not seem quite right. For Legolas, while he could trace his family line to the host of the Teleri, was a wood-elf in spirit, no matter how strongly the sea-longing had awakened in his heart. Besides, the Falas were nearly as well-known as a Sindarin haven as Doriath...

Suddenly, it came to him. “Gondolin,” Tuor said quietly. Elladan, who had been speaking, stopped and turned to him. “Legolas should consider Gondolin.” Tuor spoke quickly, the ideas falling into place. “It’s the last place one would think to look for him. And Gondolin would not reject another warrior.”

Glorfindel nodded. “Aye. It is ideal. Legolas, you could not be a Lord…”

“I do not wish to be,” Legolas said quickly.

“That is good,” Glorfindel said. “Tuor, what say you to Legolas being a soldier that escaped with you and Idril? We can leave the tale of how he came to be Thranduil’s son a complete mystery.”

“Aye,” Tuor said. “Tis sad that Galdor was ever in the vanguard when we escaped, with many others who were loyal to him. And I am sure he would not mind….”

“It’s settled then,” Glorfindel said. “I introduce you all to Legolas Greenleaf, a night-sighted elf in the service of Galdor of the Tree, a Lord of Gondolin.”

“Night-sighted?” 

Glorfindel shrugged. “It sounds like a useful trait.”

“Will Turgon agree to the addition?” Legolas asked. ”I am sure Lady Vairë would not mind altering my story – indeed, I oft wonder at how much she truly knows, for Mandos knows much of what has passed and what will come to be, and it is natural he would share such information with his spouse. However she would not consent to alter such things, even with Mandos’s approval without the consent of my would-be Lord. She is far too diplomatic to do otherwise.”

“I fear it is more that just Turgon’s opinion you need,” Gwindor said, Finduilas nodding in agreement. “For Turgon is the son of Fingolfin, and so his approval too is needed. Naturally Legolas will ask his father, and I deem it prudent to ask also Lord Finarfin, for Fingolfin will be swayed by his brother’s approval.

“My father will agree,” Legolas said. “If only to protect himself. Oft as not, he is summoned with me. And I daresay Lord Finarfin will listen to his granddaughter.”

Finduilas nodded. “I shall take the proper documents to him, ere all is decided.” 

“I am sure Turgon would listen to Idril, as would Fingolfin,” Tuor said thoughtfully. ”She would not mind enquiring, I know.”

“Then it’s settled,” Elrohir said.

“Nay, “ Gwindor said softly. ”There is more. For Fingolfin followed the host of Fëanor….”

Tuor had not known it was possible for a group of elves to fall silent so quickly. He looked around with growing dismay. He had never met Fëanor; on the contrary, on his few visits to Mandos, he had gone out of his way to avoid a possible encounter with the Spirit of Fire. However, the expressions on his friends’ faces did not seem hopeful.

“He will never agree to something that Fingolfin and Finarfin support,’ Gelmir exclaimed. “And even if he would – for Fëanor’s hatred of Morgoth runs deeper than it does with any other – his sons would certainly convince him otherwise.”

“Nor will they support anything suggested by my father,” Legolas said quietly. “For Elu Thingol is my kin, and the Sons of Fëanor did not have good dealings with his realm.”

“And Celegorm and Curufin and Maedhros still hold a grudge against those who dwelt in Nargothrond,” Glorfindel added. “Why, not with the power of a Vala and 10,000 men could we do this.”

“Perhaps we do not need a Vala,” Finduilas said slowly. “There are other things that affect one’s judgment.” She paused. “Liquor, for example.”

“Are you suggesting that we incapacitate Fëanor through drink?” Elrohir asked skeptically.

“I believe the females in the service of Morgoth refer to it as getting one drank,” Legolas said. “Or is it getting one drunk? I fear I do not remember…”

“One does not simply walk into Mandos,” Glorfindel objected. “There are powers there that do not sleep. And the great Vala Námo is ever watchful.”

“Under normal circumstances, that is indeed the case.” She raised an eyebrow, a slow smile moving over her face. “Today, however, is not a normal day. “

“The Millennium Ball is tonight,” Tuor said, realization dawning on him. “Finduilas, it’s perfect. All those whose approval we need will be there, save perhaps Thranduil. And Manwë grants the residents of the Halls a physical form for the night, if I am not mistaken.”

“He does,” Glorfindel said. “Why the uncertainty? Did you not attend the last one?”

“Nay,” Tuor said, his tone more bitter than he would have liked. “I am counted among the Eldar only by the grace of the Valar and the One, after all. I was told that Fëanor merely forgot to add my name to the list in all the excitement, and not to take it as a personal slight that Idril was invited and I was not.”

“I remember that,” Finduilas said. “Fëanor also neglected to invite Lord Elwë, and Olwë and an entire host of the Teleri refused to come. As I recall, there was talk of an alternate ball being held on the shores of Alqualondë. I was in the Halls at the time, so I do not know for certain. Nevertheless, this time is to be different. It appears that someone convinced the Fëanorians that excluding several great lords was not prudent, and we are all invited this year.”

“My family and I as well?” Legolas asked. 

“Naturally, for who would stand in the way of one of the Nine Walkers and his kin?” she replied.

“It is settled then,” Elladan said, an evil grin crossing his face. “We shall be the Eight Companions, set against the Eight of the House of Fëanor. We shall not rest, ere Legolas is granted permission to gain a First Age persona and is freed from the remnants of Morgoth’s power!”

Tuor smiled. The eight companions, indeed. He caught Legolas’s eyes and grinned. By the Valar, this was going to be _fun_.

***

Meanwhile, while the eight Elves planned strategy and filled out the necessary paperwork, while Idril laughed at the group and agreed to talk to her father, while Legolas debated potential hair colors with Elladan and Elrohir (the twins favored silver, while Legolas preferred dark hair), while Finduilas went to talk to Finarfin, while Glorfindel, Gelmir, Gwindor and Tuor debated which forms of liquor would be the most potent and placed bets as to which son of Fëanor would be most susceptible, the Halls of Mandos also buzzed with activity..

“Remind me once more why I agree to this?” Mandos asked, as he helped Vairë roll one of her great tapestries.

“I am not sure, dear one,” she replied. “I suppose to comply with the wishes of Manwë, Varda, and Eru….” Her voice trailed off, as she noticed the direction of Mandos’s gaze. She sighed. “Námo, there is naught you can do about it. It will be gone from the Halls tomorrow.”

“Vairë, it’s horrible. I had thought that perhaps this time would be better. For at least the sons of Fëanor, and Fëanor himself, had agreed to invite all the Lords this year. And while this increases the number of potential conflicts, at least it’s only one such gathering we have to worry about. But this…” Mandos gestured helplessly at the impossibly large gem that dangled from the center of the white ceiling, its multifaceted sides casting orange and blue lights all around the Hall.

Vairë silently admitted he had a point. There was no doubting that the giant gem was masterfully crafted. Fëanor had obtained permission from Varda to capture the light of Luinil, a star that gave off blue light. Likewise, he had gathered the fiery orange light of Anar as Arien steered her chariot through the sky, and collected the while light of Isil. He had obtained crystals from Aulë, and carefully imbued each crystal with the glow gathered from the heavens, Finally, he had fitted them together, creating a ball that spun gently, casting blue and orange light all around the Halls. She wondered what had possessed Fëanor to choose blue, orange and white . The One worked in mysterious ways…

“At least we need not worry about anyone not being able to see,” Vairë said.

“Aye,” Mandos groused. “They’re all likely to go blind the moment they view _that_.”

“Cheer up,” Vairë said. “Remember what you spoke of earlier? I daresay Fëanor will be hearing about his gem soon enough.”

“The Eight Companions,” Mandos agreed, sounding slightly happier. “I know that we are to remain impartial, but I cannot but wish for their success.”

“So you do not know of what will come to pass?” Vairë asked, surprised.

“Aye, the outcome lies with Ilúvatar himself,” he stated somberly. “But come, my Lady, it is time we depart. The guests will be arriving soon.”

Vairë smiled. “Yes, it is time to be off,” she agreed. She glanced once more at Fëanor’s spinning ball. There was something familiar about it – a description she had heard somewhere? She shook her head, She was _almost_ certain that Legolas had said something after one of his disappearances, or perhaps one of the sons of Elrond. As she and Mandos flew from the Halls, she remained silent, lost in thought, trying to remember.

It was only later in the evening, long after the party was well under sway, that she remembered the term. “A Disco Ball.” she murmured.

“What was that, my Lady?” Mandos asked.

“Nothing, my Lord,” she said smiling, hearing the unmistakable sounds of elven music, laughter, and the faint clash of swords drifting from the home she shared with Mandos. “Nothing at all.”

*******

**A/N:** This fic draws on references from the  Unfinished Tales, the Silmarillion, essays and chapters from the History of Middle Earth books (though since I’ve only read bits and pieces of certain volumes, mostly on the internet, I cannot provide specific references) and (of course) Lord of the Rings. Liriel (Legolas’s betrothed) is my own creation, and is in essence my stab in the dark as to why he never has a spouse mentioned in LotR. DO NOT TAKE HER EXISTENCE AS PART OF CANON. Gelmir’s wife is also my own creation – there is no evidence as to whether he was married or not. The same goes for Elladan and Elrohir’s presence in Valinor; it is never stated what kindred they chose to be counted among.

This fic is inspired by discussions at the Silmfics list on what would happen if the Elves held a Great Party during the first age. This, in essence, is my response. A great deal of credit (blame?) goes to Adrian for firmly planting this idea in my head last night. ^_^

Part two: Drunk elves, swordfights, spiked punch, a Really Cunning Plan, and reactions to the first, last, and only Disco-Ball to exist in the Blessed Realm.


	2. The Time of Your Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas and 7 companions: Tuor, Elrond's sons, Elves of Nargothrond, & a Balrog-slayer - go on a quest against the Feanorians at the social event of Valinor for the ultimate prize: an escape from bad fanfic. Silmarillion humor.

How to describe the Millennium Ball?

 

The “Biggest Event of the year, nay, the Millennium!” an overeager scribe had once claimed – and the description had endured. To this day, no one was quite sure how the tradition had started. Some whispered that Manwë had suggested the idea to Fëanor after journeying unseen with Glorfindel to that strange alternate reality that plagued so many of the high houses among the Eldar. Others claimed that Eru himself had proposed the idea for his own amusement. Whatever the case, the Ball had grown in importance. Even as Arien’s chariot disappeared into the West, elves from all over the realm began to gather, accepting the swift transportation provided by the Valar for the grand occasion. And as the excited host drew nearer to the Halls, a group of eight Elves kept to themselves, waiting….

 

***

Meanwhile, the Halls of Mandos was in a state of frantic activity. Everywhere, elves rushed about, making last minute adjustments to wardrobes, wiping miniscule pieces of dust off the walls, and in the case of several Vanyarin musicians (called in to supplement the Hall orchestra), tuning instruments. The Fëanorians themselves could be seen rushing about madly (looking very harassed), making last minute adjustments and dealing with the minor problems that crop up before any major occasion.

 

Most of them were, that is….

***

“Celegorm! Curufin! Must you two stand in front of the mirror all evening? By the Valar, Curufin, thy Lady dresses faster than you! And she looks much better than both of you, I might add.” 

 

Curufin shook his head warningly at Caranthir, watching as Celegorm - who was doing an excellent job of maintaining a facial expression that masked any signs of his having acknowledged any signs of irritation from his brothers - carefully tied the end of a long black braid. Truth be told, he agreed with Caranthir - though he wasn’t about to admit it. Admitting it would only bring another lecture from Celegorm on the importance of appearances. Which Curufin did not want. True, his natural attention to detail, which revealed itself when he worked at smithcraft or other such things, demanded that he dress well. However, Celegorm had managed to raise the choosing of clothes, accessories, weapons and the like to an art form – one that required not only a great deal of thought, but, if the current day could be taken as an example, cursing, last-minute weapon trades with various elves, and nearly all the daylight hours. Curufin watched as Celegorm smiled into the mirror.

 

“Are you done now, O Fair One?” Caranthir asked, a sarcastic edge in his voice. “Whoever came up with the idea that maidens care more for appearances obviously never met you. Why not ask Manwë for a feminine form and be done with it? Mother always did want a daughter…”

 

“Mother has wonderful daughters-in-law,” Celegorm said, bowing to Curufin, who smiled in agreement. “Furthermore, Caranthir, some of us who lack your personal charms need to spend time on our appearance.” He grinned evilly. “What was it that _writer-maid,_ “ he stopped as all three elves shuddered at the hated term. “What was it she said…..’Dark elves are so sexy, especially when paired with each other!’. I believe we all agreed that ‘sexy’, whatever it means, should be taken as a compliment…” Caranthir’s eyes blazed with anger. Curufin, long accustomed to the ways of his brothers, automatically stepped into the breach.

 

“I believe Caranthir merely feels, as do I, that three hours detailing everyone’s wardrobe is a bit excessive, Celegorm,” Curufin said. “Besides, there are more important things to consider today.” He paused. “Father’s Gem, for instance.”

“Wasn’t Maglor going to see to that…. _thing_?” Celegorm asked.

 

Curufin inclined his head in the direction of the Main Hall, where raised voices could be heard. “It seems like he needs some assistance.”

 

“And so he shall have it,” Celegorm said. “Curufin, can you summon Amrod and Amras? It sounds like Maglor could use as much assistance as possible.”

 

“Of course,” Curufin said. “Will you accompany me, Caranthir?”

 

Caranthir cast a dark glare in Celegorm’s direction. “Aye, I shall,” he said, falling into step beside Curufin. ”Dark Elf, indeed. She didn’t have the wits to understand ‘the Dark’ is a title in reference to my hair, and eyes, not my family or home. And trying to force me into _relations_ with the so-called Lord of Nan Elmoth….” He shuddered. Curufin gripped his shoulder in sympathy. Neither Eol or Caranthir had been forthcoming as to what exactly the maiden had asked them to do, but the expressions on both elves’ faces upon re-appearing in the Halls had been more than sufficient. 

 

“Lady Vairë has seen to that, at least.” Curufin said.

 

Caranthir nodded. “Even the Valar have their uses, and Lady Vairë can be most understanding, And I will grant this much to the Dark Elf; he can truly appear menacing, when he needs to be.” A smile of pure satisfaction crossed his face. “Though after I finished with her, I doubt that maid will ever _try_ to write again, let alone…..”

 

“Caranthir, Curufin!” Caranthir stopped midsentence as Amrod and Amras approached. The twins were dressed in similar tunics of a deep blue, ordered specially for the occasion from tailors in Tirion. They were cut in a classic style, for as Celegorm had commented, their current bodies were merely a gift from Manwë for the night, and it would be a pity to spend so much on clothing that would go out of style.

 

“Amrod, Amras,” Caranthir said. “We had hoped to find you here. The guests are due to arrive any moment, and it appears that Maglor has been unable to convince Father to take his gem-ball down from the ceiling. Celegorm requested that we bring you to the Main Hall directly….perhaps if we all present a united front, Father may be persuaded.”

 

“We shall come,” Amrod replied. ”Though I doubt it will do any good. Father can be dreadfully stubborn. Maedhros and Celegorm spoke to him yesterday regarding it, to no avail.” The four Elves hurried through to the main Hall, Maglor’s distressed voice urging them onwards.

 

The four stepped into the main hall. The Hall gleamed. It truly was lovely, Curufin thought, noting with pride that the rack he had crafted to hold the various cloaks, robes, and similar wraps of the guests matched the silver workings on the tiled floor perfectly. He frowned as a blue and orange lights swirled on the floor. Well, it was _almost_ lovely… 

 

Maglor sent a single, desperate glance in his brothers’ general direction before continuing his arguments. “But Father….it will distract the musicians! How can I sing, with that thing blinding me? And I am sure Daeron feels the same – am I correct, Daeron?”

 

“Truth be told, I rather like it. As the best musician ever to walk on Arda, I find it easy to ignore outside distractions while performing,” the Sindarin Elf replied from the corner, where he was directing several other musicians. He smirked as Maglor shot a hate-filled glare in his direction.

 

“If he can work through it, you can as well,” Fëanor said.

 

“Father,” Celegorm said carefully. “Perhaps we should save it for another, more prestigious day. Melian offered the use of her golden lamps…”

 

“The Lamps of the Lady Maia may have been good enough for the Halls of Menegroth,” Fëanor interrupted. “However, I, Fëanor, first son of Finwë, am hosting this gathering, and we shall all enjoy the lights created by myself and Curufin. And that is my final word on the matter.”

 

Celegorm opened his mouth to speak. However, any words he might have offered were lost, for at the moment, Maedhros entered, Lady Nerdanel and her daughters-in-law close behind.

 

“Father,” Maedhros said, bowing. “Our first guests have arrived.”

 

***

“May I have the honor of escorting you inside, my Lady?” Gwindor asked.

 

Finduilas smiled, placing her small palm on Gwindor’s arm. “The honor is entirely mine, Son of Guilin.” She lightly stepped out of the carriage, covertly checking that the small bottle of liquor (artfully concealed from view by the folds of the black velvet cloak she wore) was still secure. The liquor was not the wine favored by the elves, but rather the highly potent ale of the Dwarves, whose sturdier builds lent them a much higher tolerance for alcohol. It had been a gift to Legolas from Gimli, untouched for centuries by the Elf, whose pain and sorrow at the loss of his dear friend would never fully heal. Of course, his one prior encounter with Dwarven liquor had probably also influenced his decision to leave Gimli’s gift untouched. Finduilas suppressed a smile. Legolas had yet to reveal the details of _that_ particular adventure; however, its mere mention was enough to reduce Elladan and Elrohir to tears of laughter. Whatever the strange powers of the beverage she carried were, it was odorless and nearly the same color as the red wine her target preferred; in essence, the ideal drink for her purposes. 

 

Her thoughts were interrupted by a light touch on her shoulder. “Good luck,” Gelmir mouthed. She smiled weakly, watching as her brother-in-law melted into the pack of lesser Lords who owned their allegiance to Finarfin. She straightened, willing away vague feeling of nervousness that had settled in her stomach. 

 

”Are you sure you want to do this?” Gwindor asked her under his breath, noticing her nervous movements. “I do not mind trying…”

 

Finduilas glanced about, slightly worried that her father – or worse still, Galadriel her aunt – who had an uncanny way of knowing precisely those things you most wished to conceal – would overhear them. But the rest of the House of Finarfin was far too engrossed in their own discussions to pay much attention to anything else. “Nay, I shall be able to manage,” she replied softly. The Eight Companions had changed their plans at the last moment; deciding that such a diverse group arriving together would draw far too much attention, they had instead decided to come to the Ball with their own kin. As luck would have it, Finduilas and Gwindor, traveling as they were with Orodreth, Finrod, Lord Finarfin and Lady Eärwen themselves, were among the first to arrive. 

 

“Are you sure?” Gwindor asked, concerned. “Celegorm is no fool….”

 

“I will be fine, Gwindor,” Finduilas replied. She smiled. “He quite likes me, actually…. told me I was ‘sweet’ and far too good for the likes of a mere Lord of Nargothrond.” She laughed at Gwindor’s expression. “There is more…he said also that there were several valiant Lords who had followed the Host of Fëanor that would make me fine husbands. I have since spoken with him while in the Halls, and he will see nothing amiss in accepting a drink – or several drinks – from my hand. Do not fear. The best orator among the sons of Fëanor will be in no state of mind to protest any suggestions put forth by our Companions, ere the night is ov-.”

 

Finduilas’s voice trailed off as she entered the Hall. She heard the lilting voice of Daeron of Doriath raised in song, accompanied by some of the best musicians among the Vanyar. She heard Gwindor greeting Fëanor and Nerdanel, and each of the Sons of Fëanor. She smiled and murmured the appropriate comments, gently rejecting Maedhros’s offer to take her cloak, all the while desperately trying not to stare at the large, rotating gem in the center of the ceiling….

 

***

“Legolas! What are you doing in this corner? I was introduced to Liriel earlier – she’s lovely, I can certainly understand why you wish to keep her away from those human females – but anyway, should you not be dancing with her, rather than cowering in this corner?” Glorfindel asked. Legolas looked up, shielding his eyes as blue fire blazed forth from Fëanor’s creation. At least, Legolas decided, its’ existence was proof that he was not the only one who had been subjected to the horrors of alternate reality. Unless, of course, such creations had always been a part of such festivities. Perhaps it was a Noldorin custom…

 

“Glorfindel,” Legolas began. However, before he could complete his sentence, he was presented with the identical worried expressions of Elladan and Elrohir, Gelmir following close behind.

 

“Legolas!” Elladan exclaimed. “We have been looking for you everywhere. Elrohir and I need you to lay to rest a question that has been plaguing us since we arrived.”

 

“I shall be happy to do so, if I possess the knowledge you seek,” Legolas replied.

 

“Elladan does not believe me when I tell him this, though I have told him that my experiences with the Spawn of Morgoth have been more numerous than his.” Elrohir lowered his voice. “Legolas, is that thing a Dic…” He paused, struggling with the unfamiliar term. “A ‘Disco Ball’?” 

 

Legolas took in the confused expressions of Glorfindel and Gelmir, and the matching expressions of horror on the faces of Elrond’s sons. “Unless I am very much mistaken…. aye, it is.”

 

“A what?” Gelmir asked. “Legolas, I have never heard of such a thing.”

 

“A blessed life indeed, if you have escaped such knowledge,” Legolas replied. “I have been subjected to one only once, yet the experience has ever served as a shadow in the back of my mind.” Legolas suppressed a shiver, remembering those few horrible moments spent surrounded by people, that horrible glowing thing _twirling_ ….Legolas realized his friends were all watching him, faces reflecting varying degrees of concern. “I am sorry,” he said. “The memories had me, for a moment.”

 

“Hopefully, you will never be forced to endure such a thing again,” Gelmir said. 

 

“Yes, the Eight Companions shall overcome, though we be dragged through the Halls of Mandos and subjected to the largest, brightest, most artfully crafted disco ball in existence,” Elrohir added. “How are Finduilas, Gwindor, and Tuor faring?”

 

Gelmir laughed. “Finduilas is doing wonderfully – Gwindor tells me she has er, _refilled_ Celegorm’s glass no fewer than five times in the space of three hours.” 

 

“But I could have sworn I saw him drinking that fruit juice rather than the wine,” Elladan objected.

 

“I assure you, Dwarven liquor loses none of its’ potency when mixed with fruit juice rather than wine,” Legolas commented dryly. “I pity him; if Finduilas has given him five glasses thus far….” He shook his head. “I am not sure how much of this night he will remember, but his head will certainly ache tomorrow.”

 

“Would that that were the case,” Gelmir said. “However Manwë will revoke the physical forms he has provided for the evening before Arien rides eastward. He will feel nothing, save a loss of dignity.”

 

“Which is almost as satisfactory,” Elrohir said, grinning. “What of Tuor?”

 

Glorfindel gestured across the crowded room to where Tuor stood deep in discussion with Fingolfin. “Turgon has granted his permission for Legolas to enter Gondolin, and Tuor has promised to try and sway Fingolfin tonight.” Glorfindel lowered his voice. “I fear he feels out of place here, save among Turgon’s kin. The sons of Fëanor – specifically Caranthir and his twin brothers - have been less than hospitable.”

 

Legolas stiffened. Tuor had become a dear friend over the years, and he knew that while Tuor was happy living amongst the Eldar, his nature was still that of a son of the Edain. In many ways, he was still far more vulnerable than the trueborn sons of the Eldar. “We should not let such insults go unanswered,” he said, his eyes stern.

 

“No worries, Legolas,” Gelmir said. He nodded towards the refreshment tables at the opposite end of the grand hall, where a small crowd had gathered. “It appears that Tuor is not the only one who has enjoyed the special _hospitality_ perfected by the Fëanorians…”

 

***

 

Scattered applause rose as Daeron finished yet another tune, a spirited melody that told the tale of the Awakening of the Elves in Middle-earth, so long ago. Daeron really did have a decent voice for a Sindarin Elf, Amras decided, as he made his way across the room with Amrod. Of course, his voice wasn’t nearly as fine as Maglor’s – Quenya, after all, remained the best language for melody, or so he had always felt – but the grey elf was tolerable. He helped himself to some wine, his sharp ears catching Caranthir’s voice as he spoke to Singollo. 

 

“Lovely blade you have there, Lord Elwë,” Caranthir was saying amiably, as he helped himself to some punch.

 

Amrod raised an eyebrow. “Correct me if I am wrong, brother, but did I just overhear Caranthir complimenting the Grey-Elf king?”

 

Amras nodded. “Aye, you did.” He grinned. A compliment from Caranthir was generally a sign of other, more cutting comments to come. He caught his brother’s eye. “Come, let us see if we can contribute to this discussion.” Together, the twins made their way to their brother’s side.

 

“Indeed, it was crafted by the Naugrim, ere I departed,” Elwë Singollo was saying. He paused as the twins approached.. “Good eve, Sons of Fëanor.” His tone, while polite, held no warmth.

 

“Good day, Lord Elwë, Elured, Elurin,” Amras said evenly, nodding at the sons of Dior who had just joined the small group. He noted that their physical forms reflected the bodies they would have had, had they grown to maturity, rather than the bodies of small children they had possessed when Menegroth fell. They murmured similar greetings, their faces revealing no deeper emotions than a polite interest. “Amrod and I could not help overhearing your conversation. The swords of the Naugrim are well crafted indeed, though a bit lighter and shorter than those favored by the Noldor.”

 

“Indeed, I was just going to say the same,” Caranthir said. “Tell me, Lord Elwë, but are _all_ the swords of the Sindar similarly crafted?”

 

The former Lord of Doriath stiffened, while the faces of his grandsons reddened with a barely perceptible flush. “What are you trying to imply, Caranthir?”

 

“Imply? My brother implies nothing,” Amrod said. “Yet it is well known that Noldorin _swords_ are superior in all aspects,” Amrod said meaningfully.

 

“Step outside, Son of Fëanor, and I will give you a demonstration of how deadly the blades of the Sindar can be,” Thingol replied, his one dangerously low. Amras instinctively placed his hand on his sword-hilt, noting that Amrod, Elured and Elurin had done the same.

 

Caranthir merely laughed. “And I thought the sudden temper was a Noldorin trait,” he replied. “And I must decline, for a demonstration in swordplay from your Lordship is not a battle I seek. From your heir Dior Eluchil, perhaps…”

 

“A battle I would give you, but you would surely lose,” Dior said. Amras turned; he hadn’t even heard Thingol’s heir approach, so engrossed had he been in the discussion.

 

“Strong words indeed, for one whose renown stems from nothing more that the deeds of his parents and daughter; one whose renown was linked to physical beauty, a necklace of the Naugrim, and a Silmaril that was my father’s by right,” Caranthir hissed, face red with anger.

 

“And the one by whose hand Celegorm, who dared to seize my daughter, was slain,” Thingol replied “The one whose people defeated Curufin, and yourself, when battle was unexpected.”

 

“I tried to tell Celegorm of his folly in desiring Lúthien,” a new voice drawled, as Curufin joined the group. Whereas Caranthir appeared nearly ready to explode, and Amrod stern, Amras thought that Curufin looked very calm. Curufin took a long sip of his fruit punch before continuing. “Indeed, what did she accomplish? She won a Silmaril, true. I doubt not that any of us could have done the same, with the benefits of Lúthien’s _charms_ – and the willingness to us-…”

 

Crash! Curufin’s goblet was gone, the juice staining his pale tunic and the shattered glass reflecting the shimmering lights from above. “You will apologize for your comments about my mother,” Dior said, his sword resting at Curufin’s throat.

 

“We will apologize for nothing,” Caranthir said. “The Silmaril was ours by right, that your mother won through trickery!”

 

“Right?” Elurin spoke for the first time. “What right?”

 

“Indeed,” Elured added. “By the Valar, had you regained it, it would have been used for no other purposes than to light that great monstrosity that currently hangs from the ceiling!”

 

Amras leapt at Elured, and the battle was on. Instantly, a crowd gathered, some calling out words of support – Fëanor was among the most vocal – though none others interfered. There was an odd symmetry to it all, Amras decided, as he blocked Elured’s blade. Four sons of Fëanor against four Elves of Doriath

 

In the confusion, no one noticed a quiet Noldo’s subtle enhancement of Fëanor’s glass of wine…

***

Gwindor slipped away from the crowd, clutching a small glass bottle that had been filled with Dwarven liquor a moment before. He glanced about. Surely, it couldn’t be this simple. Surely, someone had noticed. However, as Gwindor made his way across the room to where ten elves waited, no one challenged him. In fact, most elves seemed engrossed in their own priorities – for many Elves, this was the only chance they had to see dear ones separated by the barriers that normally surrounded the Halls of Mandos.

 

“Ah! Gwindor! Were you successful?” Gelmir asked. Gwindor nodded, as he slipped into the circle of elves, which now included Gelmir’s wife, Legolas’s betrothed, and Idril Celebrindal, who over the course of the evening had aided with various bits of the Quest.

 

“Aye,” Gwindor said. “I emptied the entire bottle into his drink. Now it is up to Eru to ensure that he drinks it.”

 

“Are you sure it’s enough?” Glorfindel asked.

 

“It’s more than enough, unless Fëanor is a dwarf in disguise,” Legolas said. He frowned. “Are you sure this is the only way to obtain his approval? I cannot help but feel slightly guilty.”

 

“Perhaps we could have obtained it from him alone, without resorting to such means,” Glorfindel admitted. “However, this will ensure he will be in no state to listen to Maedhros or Maglor, ere they try and prevent his consent.”

 

Gwindor looked at Celegorm, who was sitting in near the musicians, idly patting Huan and talking to Maglor, who seemed very concerned. He turned to Finduilas. ”What did you _do_ to him?” he murmured under his breath.

 

“I did nothing Gwindor; the liquor did,” she replied, resting her head on his shoulder. He stroked her hair as she continued. “I can’t help but feel a little ashamed. He was calling me Nerwen when I finally left him, and telling me that he really was sorry that he had put a frog in my dress the day of the high feast in Tirion…” 

 

“You are far too soft-hearted, Faelivrin. After what Celegorm….”

 

Glorfindel coughed loudly, and Gwindor and Finduilas looked up guiltily. “While your reunion after a mere three hours apart is certainly touching, we have other, more important things to discuss.”

 

“I fear I must leave you all to your scheming,” Idril said as she rose. ”Legolas, I wish you well. It will be wonderful to have you in Gondolin, even for a short time.” 

 

“Thank you for your kind wishes, Idril,” Legolas said, bowing. “May the Valar see that your wishes come to pass!”

 

“I shall leave you all as well,” Liriel said rising. Gelmir’s lady rose with her. “I have promised to introduce Elewen to thy father, Legolas. And we both agreed that while we support your aim most wholeheartedly, it would be better for all concerned if we know as little as necessary, ere the Quest is successful. Farewell!” The two ladies turned and melted into the crowd.

 

“I would like to compliment all here betrothed or married on their choices of spouses,” Glorfindel said. “However, to business. What have we accomplished?”

 

“Fingolfin and Turgon have granted their permission and signed the necessary documents,” Tuor said. “Turgon saw nothing wrong in having Legolas in Gondolin – it seems he had a very bad _experience_ and was very sympathetic. Fingolfin had already conferred with Finarfin…” Tuor paused and bowed to Finduilas. “He said Finarfin had been very enthusiastic about the idea – an enthusiasm I believe we can trace to his granddaughter.”

 

“Excellent,” Elladan said. “So all that remains is Fëanor himself. Who shall obtain the signature?”

 

“I will,” Glorfindel said. “But who shall see to the Sons of Fëanor?”

 

“Caranthir, Amrod, Amras, and Curufin are already occupied,” Elladan observed, as the sounds of swordfighting filtered through the music in the Hall.

 

“And if I am not mistaken, Celegorm is re-discovering his friendship with the Hound of Valinor,” Gwindor added, watching as the fair Noldo crawled about on all fours in a corner, Huan barking in an encouraging manner.

 

“It appears Tuor has earned himself a case of wine,” Glorfindel commented. “He guessed that Celegorm would be the most susceptible to our plans.”

 

“And I was so sure Caranthir would fall first,” Gelmir sighed. “Ah well .Who is left?” 

 

“Maglor and Maedhros,” Tuor said.

 

“Nay, only Maedhros, for Maglor remains with the other musicians,” Gelmir said.

 

“What shall we do?” Finduilas asked. “We have run out of liquor…”

 

“We shall have to rely on conventional conversation to keep him from his father’s side,” Legolas said. As Maglor’s voice filled the Hall, the Eight Companions drifted apart once more….

***

“It appears that the Sprit of Fire has had too much to drink,” a nearby voice said.

 

“No, he merely put too much _spirit_ into that gem of his,” another voice replied.

 

“He poured himself into that thing? A tragic day for the Noldor, indeed.”

 

Fëanor rubbed his head. He knew he should be insulted by such comments. In fact, he thought very seriously about getting offended, before deciding that it would take too much effort. When had he acquired this splitting headache? 

 

“…a clever plan, indeed. Now all he needs is Fëanor’s approval…” Fëanor looked up. Turgon and Finarfin stood nearby, engrossed in conversation. Were thy discussing him?

 

“Legolas Greenleaf, Elf of Gondolin. It suits him,” Turgon commented. “Ah well, how they convince Fëanor is none of our concern…”

 

Fëanor frowned. Legolas Greenleaf, an Elf of Gondolin? No, that wasn’t right…..he knew the names of most of the Noldor, and there was no Noldo with that name. He was almost certain of it. And what would he have to be convinced of?

“Lord Fëanor!” Fëanor turned. A blonde elf waited respectfully. Fëanor searched for his name. “I know you…you’re….”

 

“Glorfindel, my Lord,” the elf replied, bowing. “I am sorry to bother you, but I need you to settle a question that has arisen.”

 

“What sort of question?” Fëanor asked, slightly distrustful.

 

“It is said that of all the elves, your hatred for Morgoth is the strongest,” Glorfindel said. 

 

Fëanor’s eyes flashed. ‘Indeed it is; that is a well established fact,” he snapped, irritated. By the Silmarils, his head hurt. Wasn’t it time for the Ball to be over?

 

“So you would do anything to undermine his power? To perhaps halt some of the strange tales of woe created by the human females influenced by Morgoth?”

 

“Yes….what does anything mean?” Fëanor said, his eyes drooping. Wasn’t the sky growing lighter?

 

“We need your signature allowing Legolas Greenleaf to become an Elf of Gondolin,” Glorfindel said quickly, looking worried.

 

“If I agree, Glo…Gor… if I agree, will you leave me in peace?” Fëanor asked.

 

“Yes, my Lord!”

 

“Than I shall sign whatever you wish.”

 

“Father!” Both elves turned. “Father, Legolas Greenleaf is a Sindarin Elf from the Third Age,” Maedhros said. “Are you aware of what you are allowing him to do? It’s unheard of! It would completely change the history of Arda! Father, please, please reconsider….”

 

Fëanor rubbed his eyes. What was Maedhros talking about now? He wondered if it was important. He frowned at the paper in his hand.

 

“Legolas is a Sindarin elf? Why would he wish to come to Gondolin? Wouldn’t he prefer the realm of Doriath?”

 

“Father! Legolas is from the Third Age!”

 

“Maedhros, we have established that, and your father agreed. Why are you so against the idea?”

 

“My father is…” Fëanor blinked as Maedhros disappeared. Across the Hall, Fingon, who had been chatting with Maeglin, disappeared as well. Around him, the Hall shimmered. It must be dawn. Good. He would return to being a spirit, free of this blasted headache.

 

“My Lord? Your signature?”

 

“But if he is a Sindarin Elf….”

 

“My Lord, did I mention that Legolas was most affected by your dis….your gem? He said it brought back memories…”

 

Fëanor sighed, and signed his name.

 

***

“What is taking him so long?” Tuor asked, scanning the crowd. 

 

“I am sure he will get it,” Elrohir said reassuringly. “Unless…”

 

“What?’ Elladan asked. He followed his brother’s gaze. “Is that….”

 

“Maedhros,” Gelmir stated. Elladan suppressed a groan. No, no, no, this could not happen now. Not now. Not when they had overcome every other obstacle. Not when the four youngest sons of Fëanor were still fighting the Elves of Doriath (and would probably continue to do so until Manwë took away their physical forms.) Not when they had spent an entire evening being blinded by Fëanor’s disco ball. He looked at Legolas, who was bidding his betrothed farewell. It simply wasn’t fair Elladan thought. Legolas truly deserved some peace. While he and Elrohir had been summoned several times, neither of them had had quite the same experiences as Legolas.

 

Suddenly, the air around Maedhros shimmered. 

 

“Is he being…” Finduilas asked

 

“Aye, he’s being summoned,” Elrohir agreed. “I would not wish such a fate on anyone, but if this is the way to Legolas’s freedom….”

 

The group watched as Maedhros disappeared. A moment later, Glorfindel returned, his face glowing.

 

“We have done it!” He shook Legolas’s hand. “Congratulations, Legolas. You are now an Elf of Gondolin.”

 

“How did you manage it?” Legolas asked, awed.

 

“Well, I used my renowned powers of speech,” Glorfindel began. 

 

Tuor sniffed. “You bribed him, more likely.” 

 

“Well, I did have to mention that Legolas was er, _affected_ by the gem…” he admitted

 

“Ah, well, it’s settled. Legolas has a first age persona, and that Gem will hopefully find its’ way to the Void.” Gelmir said. “Now, more importantly, who has been summoned with Maedhros?” 

 

“I believe Fingon is missing….”

 

***

And as Arien drove her chariot into the east, as elves lost their physical forms and once more returned to quiet reflection, as Mandos and Vairë returned (Mandos immediately removing the glowing gem, much to Fëanor’s regret and everyone else’s relief), as Maedhros and Fingon re-appeared in the Halls (looking slightly horrified and muttering about a strange breed known as the Silmficcer), as the swordfighting elves were forced to call the outcome of the fight a draw as their weapons disappeared, as Celegorm wondered why he was crawling in a corner, as Maglor and Daeron stopped singing, voices finally used up, and as Fëanor’s headache disappeared, eight elves walked away from the Halls, arm in arm.

 

The Quest had been a success.

 

_To be continued…._

*******

 

**A/N:** As mentioned in the first chapter, this tale draws on many references from Tolkien’s works. (see first chapter for specifics) The character of Liriel (Legolas’s betrothed) is still mine, as is Elewen (Gelmir’s wife)

 

Part three: The morning after: fangirls, distressed elves, Vairë’s weavings, and most importantly….the fate of the disco ball.


	3. And in the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas and 7 companions: Tuor, Elrond's sons, Elves of Nargothrond, & a Balrog-slayer - go on a quest against the Feanorians at the social event of Valinor for the ultimate prize: an escape from bad fanfic. Silmarillion humor.

The morning after the Millennium Ball saw the Halls of Mandos returning to their usual quiet. The vast hangings regained their places of honor, and the halls seemed wrapped in sorrow and reflection. Vairë and her handmaidens worked at their weavings, creating tapestries as rich and magnificent as life itself. Spirits resumed their calls to Nienna, and she lamented and walked amongst them. And while certain spirits seemed rather out of sorts – the Fëanorians seemed particularly upset – it was only to be expected. After all, as Mandos had noted, it was a wonder that any event that involved the Fëanorians, the houses of Finarfin and Fingolfin, lords of the Teleri, Sindar, Vanyar, and other kindreds, elves who had resided in locations ranging from Gondolin to Eryn Lasgalen, and a large, bright, shiny jewel had not ended in a complete riot.

Yes, the residents of the Halls of Mandos were returning to their usual routines. However, as Mandos well knew, the events of the night before could not be undone…

***

The mansions of Ilmaren, situated high on the peaks of Taniquentil, home of Manwë and Varda, had housed many strange things over the centuries. Though few had ever entered those hallowed halls, the tales of the wonderful objects, visitors, and happenings in the dwelling of the Lord and Lady of the Valar were numerous indeed. However, Manwë thought, as he gazed at the bright gem hovering in the center of his pristine white hall, nothing _quite_ like this particular creation of Fëanor’s had ever existed within his home.

“What brings you here, Námo?” he asked as he sat down, blue robes rustling. He knew that Námo agreed to host the Millennium Ball only to comply with the wishes of Ilúvatar, Varda and himself. Still, Manwë thought, by all accounts, this year’s Ball had gone off rather well. He had been most pleased that none of the Elves had destroyed their temporary physical bodies. Naturally, he had known of the Quest, though its’ outcome had not been revealed to him until it was completed. While he was glad the Eight Companions - Manwë shook his head; it was obvious the Sons of Elrond had inherited their father’s particular skill for naming groups of travelers – while he was happy they had succeeded, he could not help but view the outcome with a certain amount of weariness. The Sons of Fëanor were proud, true, but no fools… He blinked, realizing Námo had just spoken. “I am sorry, Námo, could you repeat your request? I fear I was distracted.”

“Of course,” Námo replied, bowing low. “Manwë Sulimo, I beg you accept this gem as a token.”

“A token of what, precisely?” Manwë asked, all thoughts of Fëanorians and the Quest pushed aside. The gem twirled, casting bright patterns across the floor.

“A token of my faith in your abilities,” Námo replied. Manwë fixed his gaze on the Doomsman of the Valar. Námo held his hands out helplessly. “For the love of Ilúvatar, Manwë, you know what must be done.” 

Manwë sighed, watching the multicolored patterns swirl on the floor. Yes, he knew what had to be done. He shook his head sadly. The ways of Ilúvatar were mysterious indeed. For a moment he stood, hair drifting in the winds that constantly swirled around him. An instant later, the gem disappeared…

***

The tapestries of Vairë shimmered in the ghostly light that pervaded the Halls, the vivid colors a stark contrast to the white floors and high ceilings. Gelmir held his hand near the tapestry, marveling at the kaleidoscope of images and auras trapped within the silken threads. Joy and sorrow, honor and treachery, hope and despair were the stuff of which such tapestries were made; a testament to history and life itself. Once more he marveled at the skill of Vairë and her handmaidens, who had crafted the delicate weavings for many Ages of the world. While he had often gazed at the tapestries in his own centuries of reflection in the Halls, he found that he never tired of looking at them. They constantly shifted, subtly changing as time sped by. Even now, the great looms hummed as the weavings documented the past. Or, in some cases, Gelmir thought, edited it. He tore his eyes away from the tapestries and returned his attention to the discussion at hand.

Vairë held the packet of parchment in her hand, scanning the signatures on the documents before her. The Eight Companions stood around her, waiting for her judgment. They had returned with Legolas to the Halls to offer him moral support and guidance as he prepared to create his First Age identity. However, the creation of that identity still required the Valië’s approval. 

“Everything seems to be in order. I would enquire as to how exactly you convinced Fëanor,” she paused as the Companions shifted uneasily. “However, judging from your own demeanor and the rather undignified conduct of several members of Fëanor’s kin last night, I daresay it is better for all concerned that I know as little as necessary.”

Gelmir caught Legolas’s gaze. He knew that the Sindarin elf still felt slightly guilty over the rather unorthodox methods they had used to obtain Fëanor’s permission. Still, what was done was done, and as the twins had pointed out, the entire experience had been highly amusing,

“If that is your wish, my Lady,” Legolas said, bowing. “Yet now I beg your leave to spend time in the Realm of Gondolin, in the years that it still endured.”

“You have the proper documentation,” Vairë replied. “And you have sought and received the permission of Fëanor, and all others whom this decision will directly affect. Now all that remains is the minute details of your First Age existence.”

Legolas nodded. “Aye, my Lady. The Lords Gelmir, Gwindor, and the Lady Finduilas have been telling me of the customs and mannerism of the folk of that age, and Glorfindel and Tuor have been speaking to me of Gondolin.”

“Indeed,” Glorfindel said. “My lady, we believe we have come up with an appropriate life for Legolas. We had thought he could be in the service of Galdor of the Tree...”

“A fitting house for an elf of the woods,” Vairë replied gravely. She gestured to her attendants, who helped unroll part of a great tapestry. Gelmir watched, fascinated, as she probed at the threads, searching and locating the strands necessary to edit the life of Legolas and allow him admittance into Gondolin. “Now, I need someone to give me the exact details of Legolas’s role in Gondolin,” she said, fingers dancing amidst the strands.

Immediately, Glorfindel began to speak, carefully detailing life in Gondolin before its betrayal, Tuor chiming in with a comment when needed. Vairë grilled the two for details, making cryptic markings on a piece of parchment nearby so as to keep the details fresh.

Gelmir felt his eyes stray once more to the tapestries. Vairë held the threads of Legolas’s life and Gondolin static, murmuring to herself as Glorfindel spoke. Gelmir glanced at Legolas. Legolas listened to the group, though his attention seemed focused elsewhere. Gelmir narrowed his eyes. Something was not quite right. Legolas seemed different, somehow. Of course, subtle differences were to be expected – he was about to gain a new identity. However, he expected the elf to look happier about it…

Suddenly, the air around Legolas shimmered. Instantly, Vairë released the threads. Dimly, Gelmir could hear her saying something about not starting the weaving now, lest the changes prevented Legolas from returning. Gelmir reached out and gripped Legolas’s shoulder, more as an act of desperation than anything else. It wasn’t right, Gelmir thought, trying desperately to keep his grip. Vairë had agreed! He was going to be an elf of Gondolin... An instant later, Gelmir fell forward, clutching only air. Legolas was gone.

The remaining Companions stared. Vairë gave a sigh. “Continue your tale Glorfindel. When he returns, I will begin the weaving.”

Gelmir listened, silently wishing his friend luck, and idly wondering who, if anyone, had gone with Legolas this time...

***

Meanwhile, in another world, Calienedhel (known simply as Calien or the Lightbringer to the Rangers of Lothlórien) stood in a clearing, basking in the sunlight. She threw back her long raven hair and laughed, clear amethyst eyes shining with the Light for which she had been named. She drew her crystal sword, lightly tracing the elvish runes that wound about the hilt. Her mind turned to the previous bearer of the sword - her father, who had been slain by Sauron. She had worked long and hard to perfect her skills as a warrior (not that she needed to, as swordsmanship, along with archery, jujitsu, healing, dance, and impeccable dress sense had come as naturally as breathing), in the hopes that someday, she would be able to avenge the family she had never known…

She shook her head. Now was not the time to think about that sort of thing. She fingered the small leather message pouch she carried. She had been charged by the Lady Galadriel to deliver an urgent message to Elrond – she had wasted far too much time already. She strode up to the secret chambers of Elrond, completely impervious to the admiring stares of various attractive elf lords, rugged mortal rangers, Captains of Towers, adorable halflings, and the other beings that had naturally arrived at the same time… 

She opened her eyes. Middle-earth faded, to be replaced with her computer screen. Calien smiled. Everything was happening just as she wanted it to Of course, Calien wasn’t her _real_ name – her ‘real’ name was far too ordinary. Besides, she reasoned, if she was going to write a story, she may as well give herself a cool she-elf name. 

She rubbed her palms together. Now, it was time for the best part, her meeting with Elrond. And Leggy – no, not Leggy, she corrected, remembering the instructions she had been given. Legolas, son of Thranduil son of Oropher, prince of Mirkwood. She had it all planned out. Of course Legolas would look down on her at first. She sniffed. Male elves were always so _sexist_! She’d read the  Lord of the Rings (the parts with Leggy anyway) and there were no female characters! So, naturally, she had to invent one. She grinned. Besides, it wasn’t _her_ fault that she would have to work with Legolas…..it was going to be Lord Elrond’s. Grinning, she began to type once more….

***

“Greetings, Elrond,” the maid with the unnatural amethyst eyes said, as she stepped into a room Elrond assumed was his chamber. “I did not expect that you would be so pleased to see me.” 

Elrond stared at her, trying to gain control of his emotions. Elrond Peredhil, Lord of Imladris, Bearer of Vilya, son of Eärendil and Elwing, brother of Elros Tar-Minyatur, father of Arwen, Elladan, and Elrohir, foster father of Aragorn son of Arathorn (better known as King Elessar Telcontar, high King of Gondor and Arnor), husband of Celebrian of Lórien, and owner of a host of other titles that he would not speak of in this strange place, was _not_ pleased to note the maiden’s arrival. In fact, “not pleased” was defined as a massive understatement. He was upset, irritated, and quietly furious about the fact that he had been once more ripped from his library and his companions to fulfill the twisted commands of yet another human female under Morgoth’s power.

“Lord Elrond…. _this_ is the ranger Galadriel has sent?” Legolas delivered the line in a mocking voice, his eyes glittering with silent anger. Elrond raised an eyebrow. True, he had not paid much attention to Legolas the night before, but he could have sworn he had heard that Legolas was to be an elf of Gondolin, or something to that effect. A brilliant solution, Elrond felt, and a relief not only to the prince, but to those who were generally summoned with him. Like himself, for instance. Elrond frowned. But if Legolas was an Elf of Gondolin as well as the Prince of Eryn Lasgalen and Lord of Ithilien, how was it this maid had summoned him?

“Come, speak with me for a moment, Legolas,” Elrond said sharply. He softened his tone, noting the maiden’s eyes light up at his tone. No doubt the silly girl thought he was going to chastise Legolas for his contempt of her. Elrond smiled grimly. By the Valar, she was going to regret this. Legolas walked over.

“Legolas, what is the meaning of this?” Elrond asked, keeping his voice as low as he was able. The girl strained to listen. “Did the Lady Vairë not agree to interweave your life with that of the kingdom of Gondolin?”

“Aye, Lord Elrond, she did. However…” Legolas’s voice trailed off. He cast one glance at the maiden, who gave him a winning smile. “However, we were _interrupted_ before the Lady could begin her weavings.”

“Ah,” Elrond said. The maiden was now singing softly to herself (off key, Elrond noted) He caught Legolas’s eye. “Well, I take it is time we returned, is it not?”

Legolas shook his head. “I fear she will not be easily shaken,” he confided. “I seem to recall meeting her once before, under a different name. I had to tell her I was enamored of Sauron to escape.”

“In that case,” Elrond said grimly, “We must take drastic measures. Follow my lead.” Legolas nodded, his eyes glinting. Elrond noticed the girl, who was now looking at Legolas in much the same way a snake views a particularly tasty looking mouse. Elrond smiled. She was going to regret this. “Ready?” Elrond asked. Legolas gave a barely perceptable nod.

“Legolas, surely you know such comments are false,” Elrond said, raising his voice once more. “I fear I cannot let that slide….” The maiden began to speak, but Elrond held his hand up for silence. He ran his hand down the Prince’s hair. The silver – at least for the moment (the prince’s hair had an uncanny ability to change colors) – the silver strands wrapped around his fingers. Elrond closed his eyes “Leave us,” he muttered hoarsely at the maiden, knowing very well she would not. The maiden remained standing. Elrond drew his knife and pushed Legolas backward. Legolas complied, his lips twitching. 

“Lord Elrond…” Legolas stammered, biting his lip. “My Lord, please, I cannot do this…” 

Elrond cast a quick glance over his shoulder. The maiden watched, her mouth open. Perfect. “Kneel, Legolas, or you shall be knelt.” Elrond said, his tone menacing. Legolas immediately fell to the floor, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

“What are you doing to him?” The maiden shouted, aghast. “Leave Leggy alone, you dirty old man! He’s not like that! _You’re_ not like that!”

“I am not a man,” Elrond replied. “And what would a mere maiden know of this matter? Long have I waited for this moment. Here I am, in the wild, a host of Elves at my call, and Legolas before me, ready to satisfy my whims…” His words had their calculated effect. The room shimmered as the maiden struggled to remain in control of her alternate reality. Elrond felt the bonds that held him in this strange place loosen. Legolas reached up and began toying with Elrond’s robes. The maiden shrieked. The room began to spin. Instantly, Legolas was up on his feet. A well placed arrow shattered the maiden’s sword, sending crystal shards flying. “This is what happens when you seek to create a realm without knowledge, “ Elrond said coldly to the maiden. “Do not _ever_ try such a thing again.” Before she could respond, the alternate reality faded away. 

“”That took longer than expected, dear one,” Celebrian admonished, as Elrond resumed his seat beside her. 

“I am sorry, my queen.” Elrond said. He covered her hand with his. “Let us speak no more of it…” Celebrian smiled. Elrond returned the smile. If his knowledge of the Valar was correct, Legolas would not have to worry about such a situation again for a long while…

***

“And so he returns,” Maedhros said softly, watching as Legolas reappeared at the far end of the Halls and once more disappeared into the portions of the Halls that belonged to Vairë. “He returns, and will now be counted among the Elves of the First Age.” He paced (or, more accurately, would have paced, had he a physical form. As it was, he merely drifted a few feet above the floor). It was not that he begrudged Legolas an escape from those…. _females_ ; however, he was appalled that the Elf had been allowed to join the First Age. He turned to face his brothers. “How was it that none of you could stop him? He is but a mere wood-elf. At best, he can claim kinship with Elwë Singollo through his father’s line. So how could we fail to perceive his intent?”

“I was occupied with the musicians,” Maglor said. “And I daresay Legolas Thranduilion had help with his endeavors, if the behavior of his present companions is a sign of anything.” Maglor turned to Celegorm. “Brother, were you not _entertaining_ yourself with the daughter of Orodreth? If I am not mistaken, she is with Legolas and the others now...” 

“Stop the insinuations, Maglor. She is married, and our kinswoman besides. I merely was speaking with her for a time.”

“And drinking her wine,” Amras muttered. “Of course, you were not the only one.” He turned to Maedhros. “Pray tell, brother dear, how it was that our father was allowed to become incapacitated, and sign those documents in the first place.”

“Well, Lord Fingon...” Caranthir started. Maedhros turned to him, eyes flashing. “Why Maedhros, such anger! I was merely going to say that Fingon and you seemed to be getting along rather well last evening. Perhaps you were preoccupied with your relationship?”

Maedhros pushed ethereal red hair off of his face. “That ‘relationship’ is not encouraged by Fingon or myself, and you know it well, Dark Elf,” Maedhros watched, satisfied, as the remark hit its’ target. “Furthermore, I was summoned by those Silmficcers.” The unfamiliar term twisted his tongue. A foul word indeed. “ The experience was not at all one I desired. And I would ask how you, Caranthir, and Curufin, Amrod, and Amras did not try to intervene.”

“We were defending our family honor,” Curufin protested. “Surely, we could not let our father’s craftsmanship be the victim of Sindarin humor, even if such comments may have been justified.”

“I concede that you have a point,” Maedhros said, sighing. “Poor Father – he poured so much effort into its’ creation. It almost pains me to see it destroyed.”

“I do not think it is being destroyed,” Maglor said. “I saw Mandos with it earlier, and there is talk of him taking the gem to Manwë himself.”

“I’m sure we will learn of its’ fate soon enough,” Curufin said. “However, the problem of Legolas still remains. Surely, there must be a way to stop this. Father was not in his right mind when he gained permission...”

“Do you fancy telling him that?” Amrod asked. “I surely don’t...” His voice trailed off as Legolas, now with the badge of Galdor of the Tree added to the numerous other sigils on his tunic walked past, his companions following. Maedhros glared at Glorfindel. The golden haired warrior merely raised his eyebrow, grinning wickedly. Then he turned and continued his exit from the Halls.

“And so it is done,” Maglor said. Maedhros nodded, too upset to say anything else. Legolas had gained entrance into the greatest age of Arda, and at the same time, managed to find a way to escape those females. Maedhros admitted that he was jealous of the prince’s new freedom, though he would be loath to say such a thing before his brothers. It was really a pity that he could not take on an identity from another Age. Or could he? After all, his life, and those of his father and brothers, were not spoken of in all the Ages of the world. Perhaps Legolas had the right idea after all...

“Maedhros!” Fëanor’s voice brought Maedhros back to the present. He blinked. When had his father joined the group? 

“My apologies, Father,” Maedhros said. “My mind was elsewhere.”

“By the Silmarils, do not state the obvious,” Fëanor said. “Is it true that Legolas Thranduilion is now an Elf of Gondolin?”

“Aye, Father,” Maedhros said.

“I should not have granted my permission.” Fëanor said. “I fear I was tired out by the festivities, and so unable to think clearly. Still, what is done is done. We have no recourse but to accept it.” Fëanor smiled stiffly. “At least one Elf is freed from Morgoth’s power. Now, if only we all could be granted a similar respite...”

Maedhros let his gaze travel across the features of each of his brothers. He gestured for them to step back into a secluded corner. “Perhaps such a respite is within our grasp. For if Legolas Thranduilion of the Third Age could exist in Gondolin, surely we could exist in another Age as well...”

“Perhaps we can even seek to retrieve my beautiful whirling gem, or the Silmarils,” Fëanor said thoughtfully. “Of course, fetching a Silmaril out of the flaming depths of the Earth could present a problem. However, searching Valinor for my gem, or the oceans for the other Silmaril...”

“Of course, Father,” Maedhros said. “What say the rest of you?”

“It is indeed a clever plan. We shall be the Eight Seekers, and we shall not rest until we have gained multi-age personas!” Celegorm said. Fëanor looked at him. “Or, barring that retrieved the Silmarils and Father’s gem.”

“Well said,” Maglor agreed. “It shall be a Quest the likes of which has never been seen; the inspiration for countless heroic songs or tragic ballads, whichever the case may be.”

“Indeed,” Maedhros agreed. “Now, to specifics....”

And so they set to planning, never knowing that a quiet being, concealed from the Fëanorians by a power beyond their own, had known of every last word. 

***

The Ring of Doom stood as it had for eons, the stone thrones of the Valar gleaming in the light. There was an air of sobriety that clung to this place, which seemed to permeate the very stones beneath Aulë’s feet. The Vala stood still for a moment, reveling in the comforting feel of good, solid stone. However, his concentration was shattered by the dancing lights thrown forth by the multifaceted gem that twirled silently. Aulë sighed. It was rare indeed that he regretted the knowledge he had imparted to the Firstborn; however this particular gem, while crafted beautifully, went against all the rules of aesthetics he had embraced over the years. Still, Aulë consoled himself, he gem was not entirely his fault – Varda had allowed Fëanor to capture the light of the heavens for the creation. Aulë felt a comforting arm touch his shoulder. He turned. Manwë and Varda stood behind him. Varda held her hands out in a gesture of regret and helplessness.

“My lord Manwë, are you certain the gem goes here?” Aulë asked, his tone slightly desperate. “ Surely Ilúvatar did not mean for this to remain here!”

Manwë nodded. “The will of the One is beyond our perception, and even I cannot claim to understand all he wills.”

“’Tis not as bad as it seems, Aulë,” Varda said comfortingly. “I shall reclaim the light of Luinil and Arien. I daresay a twirling gem set with silvery light will not be as bad.”

“It will be an improvement, at any rate,” Aulë said. “However, I deem it would be prudent to not mention such a thing before Fëanor, lest he protest and create a disturbance.”

“The House of Fëanor is preoccupied with other things,” a new voice said. Námo joined the group. “Manwë, it has begun.”

“What has begun?’ Varda asked curiously.

“The Quest of the Eight Seekers,” Námo and Manwë said simultaneously.

“What precisely does this quest entail?” Aulë asked curiously.

“You know of Legolas Greenleaf’s new identity, do you not?” Námo asked. Aulë nodded. Somehow, he already knew where this tale was headed.

“I suppose the Fëanorians want it revoked,” Aulë said.

“Not exactly...”

***

And as Arien continued her journey across the sky, as Aulë worked on cementing the Gem of Fëanor to the Ring of Doom (where it could forever more strike terror into the hearts of wrongdoers) as Legolas, Elf of Gondolin and of Mirkwood related the tale of his and Elrond’s escape from alternate reality, as the Eight Seekers plotted strategy,, as Manwë sighed and prepared himself for a deluge of paperwork and the particular brand of Fëanorian stubbornness he had come to expect, as Vairë admired her new weavings, as fangirls in a different time and place set aside their stories temporarily to watch the Two Towers (their desire to write checked by hormones and the stunning possibilities of Eómer, Haldir, and Faramir romances) as Mandos returned to his halls and attempted to reason with the Fëanorians, the tales of the Eight Companions spread far beyond the dominion of the Valar.

The tales traveled beyond the undying lands, into realms and places believed to be separate. And so, in a twist of fate that only Ilúvatar truly understands, the tale slipped into the Void and came to the ears of Melkor. The once proud Vala smiled and rubbed his hands. For, as he well knew, the real power of human beings lies not in their strength, nor their power, but their inventiveness. And he doubted not that someday, they would find a way around this obstacle.

“Enjoy your victory, Legolas Greenleaf,” Melkor whispered, the words but an echo in the chill winter wind. “For this is but the beginning...”

FIN  
  
*******  
  
**A/N**  
  


Thanks to all who read and reviewed the first two parts of this fic. Once more, special thanks to the Silmfics list (especially Adrian the self-described fanboy in slime), for firmly planting this tale in my head. I feel I would be amiss without also acknowledging the Mary-Sue writers whose literary efforts provided inspiration for the rest of this tale. Any resemblance of parts of this story to other tales is purely coincidental – Calien is my own creation, and her “alternate reality” is but a testament to the hundreds of Mary-Sue tales I’ve read here over the past year.

I’d also like to once again thank Dwimordene and Wild Iris for their grammar comments. *bows low before the wonderful grammar nitpickers*

Before I am asked, no, I will not be telling the story of the Fëanorians and their Quest – though if anyone would like to take that tale upon themselves, they are welcome to :) 


End file.
